


The Warmth Of Your Doorways

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter Has a Saving People Thing, Healing, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Harry picks up strays after the war.





	The Warmth Of Your Doorways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HenryMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/gifts).



> I claimed this for the wireless fest, but then ran out of time, unfortunately. Please, go check out the wonderful wireless fics! The prompt was Henrymercury's, for Hozier's song, It Will Come Back, and I loved the idea. (Henry absolutely does not have to read this though, no pressure). Fun Fact: Draco isn't actually properly in this chapter, but he sure as hell will be in the rest of it. This is definitely a Drarry fic, it's just a very slow burn, jeez. Some very, very minor scenes of violence, and a bit of swearing, and Harry being kind of sad but working on it. 
> 
> I also interpreted strays as people, but some creatures too. 
> 
> Thanks! Hope you enjoy! <3

Paper flowers flatten themselves against the walls of the stairway. Beams creak in the patches of dusty sunlight, and the worn floor turns warm under the cold soles of Harry’s feet. A newspaper waits outside and there are milk bottles to put out on the front step, but the old war-wariness creeps in, casting a shadow over the bright morning. Everything is still so new, this freedom from horror, and the cautious, fearful habits haven’t yet faded into the past where they belong. 

It’s always in the mornings, when Harry jerks awake from a restless sleep, wand in hand and heart in mouth, that he wonders whether the habits will ever fade. 

Harry slips the cloak on in the hallway, next to where the troll-leg umbrella stand used to be. He spent two weeks at the Weasley’s immediately after the war before he began to feel like he was intruding on their grief, and the first thing he did when he got to Grimmauld Place was accidentally bump into the stand. He took it to the attic before he’d even taken his coat off, unable to walk past it without hearing Tonks’s clumsy fumbling or the sound of her laughter. Even now, with the space beside the door empty, he can see the shape of her conspiring wink as she tripped past him.

The memories fall away from him like glass, shattering at his feet. He feels the smooth velvet of the cloak between his fingers and goes out to get the paper, throat tight. He squints against a morning that’s too bright, too new. Fragile at the edges, like the shell of an egg, ragged and ready to crumple. 

Harry stands on the doorstep and breathes in the fresh air, slightly muffled by the musk of the cloak; Harry hasn’t quite figured out how to clean it, and so the thick fabric forever smells like old tapestries. It isn’t bad, though. He ducks down to pick up the paper, and spots a shape next door, through the bars of the railing. 

It’s a dark shape, huddled on the doorstep of his neighbours’ building. A human sort of shape, swaddled in thick cloth and shivering despite the warmth of the July morning. Harry straightens slowly, spiriting the newspaper away under his cloak and tucking it under his elbow, and steps down the path in his socks. Next door’s garden gate opens with a shrill shriek of rusted hinges, twisted iron cool under his hands, and he makes his way up to the lump. 

He knows his neighbours are away for a while. He saw them getting into the car last Saturday, piling several suitcases and sleeping bags into the boot before they took off with a bang and a cascade of smoke, the car rattling down the road. So this can’t be the neighbour. 

Harry shifts, the cloak billowing around his ankles. He’s never liked seeing people like this. He doesn’t think anyone does, but beneath the deep uncomfortable feeling that settles in his stomach, and the urge to look away, there is a fierce need to help. 

A very large part of him is screaming that it’s a trap. There are still several Death Eater’s at large, and many more who never took the Dark Mark but still sided with Voldemort. All of them are out there in the world and Harry doesn’t think it’s vain to say that all of them want him, specifically, dead. 

And yet whoever this is doesn’t look like a threat, and a trap seems far-fetched, considering it could be anybody in the world. Grimmauld Place is hidden again. He slips his wand out of his sleeve anyway and holds it loosely in his fist. 

Harry clears his throat, and then remembers the cloak. It’s too late though, and the lump is moving, ducking their head out of the blankets to reveal - Theo Nott. 

They both blink in surprise. Harry remembers him, barely, from school. Theo had always been on the brink of the crowd, nose buried in a book, a superior look on his face that said he was above the rabble that roamed the halls. His hair is dark and his mouth is thin, and his chin isn’t as pointy as Malfoy’s, but it’s pointy regardless. 

Theo looks suspiciously at the gap at the bottom of the Invisibility Cloak, where Harry’s feet peek through. His eyes are hazy, lashes thick with sleep, but he blinks once, twice, and then sits bolt upright on the step. The blankets fall down to pool in his lap, revealing narrow shoulders, clad in a threadbare jumper that had no doubt once been the height of expense. Theo squints suspiciously at the gap, and then raises his eyes to approximately the area around Harry’s head. 

“Potter?” 

Harry startles, and then hesitates. His grip on his wand tightens. He could turn and go back inside, pretend he was never here, or he could remove the cloak and reveal himself to a former enemy. A former enemy who’s sleeping on someone else’s doorstep. A person, first and foremost, that he can help. 

In the end, it isn’t really a hard decision. The cloak slips off easily. Theo swallows at the sight of him, chin tipped up in defiance, eyes tinged with fear. Harry has never wanted to be something that people were afraid of. He has only wanted, at the very heart of it all, to be as ordinary as a wizard could be, a man with a normal life and a family and a future. Magic was enough of an adventure on its own; getting to leave the Dursley’s was enough of a dream. 

He bundles the cloak up in his hands and cocks his head at Theo. “How’d you know it was me before I took the cloak off?” 

Theo is slow to start speaking. He keeps glancing at Harry’s wand, like he might start shooting hexes if Theo moves too quickly. 

“Malfoy used to ramble on about you having an Invisibility Cloak, in the common room. Said you threw snowballs at him in Hogsmeade while you were under it.”

Harry hasn’t thought about Malfoy in a few days, which is a personal record. He grins, and it doesn’t feel right on his mouth, but the ghost of fond remembrance lives where safety used to be. Theo’s eyes widen. 

“I live next door,” Harry says, gesturing. “You can come in, if you want.”

Harry sees him hesitate, and he turns away before Theo can answer, treading down the garden path and up towards his own front door. There’s a scramble from behind him as blankets are gathered and knees are locked. When Harry opens the front door, Kreacher beckons two figures inside, rather than one, and then Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place disappears from view. 

Theo is a pretty suspicious person, it turns out. Harry doesn’t mind. He’d be suspicious too, if it were the other way round. But it’s not, and Harry is the one with the kettle and the shower and the bookshelf that Hermione plans to fill with books she thinks Harry might enjoy, and Theo is the one who wants all those things, but is too wary and proud and stubborn to accept all those things. 

Which is why Harry doesn’t give him much of a choice. He makes two cups of tea, slides them both onto the table and gestures for Theo to sit, casting a subtle warming charm over the room in general, rather than aiming it directly at Theo. Theo’s shivers subside gradually, and he curls his hands around the steaming mug, quietly accepting the sugar and milk from the little pots in front of them. He looks stiff and uncomfortable, but there’s not much Harry can do about that.

Kreacher brings them both a sandwich, and Harry bites into it, munches it casually as he flips through the paper. Not ignoring Theo, not exactly. But he’s not going to force a conversation. 

He’s guessing, through some sort of war-related event, that Theo lost his wand. And he’s guessing that Theo hasn’t been able to get a new one since - either because of his lack of funds or his fear of showing his face, which he keeps aimed at the wall behind Harry’s left shoulder. Harry remembers not having a wand, the fear that ran through him every time he reached for it and it wasn’t there. A wizard without a wand is a vulnerable thing. 

They finish their sandwiches, and Harry puts the paper down. Theo’s tea is gone, gulped down while it was still piping hot, but when Harry moves to make him another cup, Theo stands up abruptly. 

“I should be going,” Theo says. 

Harry withdraws his hand from the mug, runs it through his hair instead. There are a thousand things he could say to that, but he settles on, “Got somewhere nice in mind?”

Theo sets his jaw. They don't speak, even as Harry fills the kettle up and sets the dishes in the sink. Kreacher appears at some point, ready to push Harry aside with his insistent, spindly hands that make Harry miss Dobby, but Harry nudges him back upstairs, tells him to set up the guest room. 

Theo hears him. He stands again, stumbling as he strides forward, bone-tired and dead on his feet. Harry turns in time to face Theo’s sneer and stares back impassively. 

“I get it, Potter, you’re the fucking Chosen One and you saved the wizarding world. You have a house and a wand and you made it out. Rub it in. But I don't need your charity,” Theo snaps. “Or your pity.”

It’s nothing Harry didn’t expect. He didn’t wake up this morning with the intention of helping Theo Nott out of his homelessness, but in the past ten minutes, he’s been mentally preparing for an onslaught of insults. He grabs a tea-towel that’s been stuffed in the handle of the drawer beside him and rubs his hands dry from where he dipped them in the sink briefly with the dishes. Theo doesn’t want charity, but he needs help, so Harry makes him an offer. 

“So help me decorate.”

Theo blinks at him, the anger blotted out by surprise. “What?”

Harry doesn’t know where the idea came from, but now that he’s planted it out there, he’s going to nurture the thought, watch it grow. 

“The house needs decorating, but I don't know what I’m doing,” Harry says, putting the tea-towel aside. “I don't know the right spells, and Hermione said she’d help when she has the time, but she’s in Australia, and when she gets back she’ll be fending off job offers left and right.” 

He grins fondly, proudly. He’s proud of her. He’s proud of both of them. Ron has a place in Auror training when he gets back, and Hermione’s talking to McGonagall about ways to take the exams she missed, but letters keep flying in from the Ministry and different businesses, asking for the Brightest Witch of her Age. Harry knows that Hermione won’t take a job until she’s exhausted all proper routes of education, but he likes that the world is sitting up and taking notice of her, of both of them. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” Theo asks. 

Harry blinks at him. “Would have thought that was obvious. Stay in the guest room, and help me fix the rest of the place up, so I don't feel like I’m living in a mausoleum.”

He doesn’t offer to pay Theo for his help, because he thinks he’d get spit on, and he’s not in the mood for that. It’s been an okay morning, so far, and he’d like it to stay that way. 

Theo sneers again, but there’s no heat behind it. Just uncertainty, and a small spark of cautious hope. 

“You don't have to,” Harry says. He wants to help, but it’s up to Theo, and Harry honestly doesn’t care if Theo walks out of the front door and never comes back, in the end. Theo must see that because he shuffles his weight around a bit, chewing on his tongue.

“But let me show you where the room is, in case you change your mind.”

He takes Theo upstairs. It’s horrible, having someone at his back that he doesn’t trust, but Theo doesn’t know the way and Harry is the one with the wand, so he makes do. Two sets of footsteps tread up the stairs, one light and painfully careful, the other heavy and sure. Dust rises with each step. 

Harry pushes open the bedroom on the second floor, showing off the peeling paint and the damp, mould-ridden window. Kreacher hasn’t gotten quite this far yet, and even if he were to undertake the whole thing on his own, there are things Harry wants to replace and mend and remake. He wants to decorate it and turn it into a home, fill it with things that are his, not just clean it up a bit. Who knows how long he’s going to live here; the idea of having a permanent living space is something of a novelty in his mind at the moment, so he’s taking each day as it comes. 

Theo stares at everything, taking it all in. Harry reasons that it’s probably better than someone’s doorstep, even as he inwardly grimaces at the state of the place. He’s used to the Dursley’s, which was a standard or so above everyone else’s expectations of cleanliness, courtesy of his own hands and Aunt Petunia’s severe look. He’s used to the Burrow, carefully scrubbed and lovingly tended by Mrs Weasley and whomever she can find at the time to wield a broom. And he’s used to Hogwarts, where everything is spick and span and warm, clean and cosy, a place to call home. 

He’s used to other places too, like tents, but he’s trying hard to forget about that. 

He doesn’t know why he wants to help Theo. He knows what Ron and Hermione would say, about his saving people thing, but he doesn’t rightly care to hear that at the moment. Theo isn’t dangerous - he’s half-asleep and wandless, and Harry knows he has the upper hand here. Which isn’t something he necessarily likes thinking, but it’s good to know. 

“See why I need the help?” Harry says, leaning against the door-frame. Theo looks at him askance, and Harry offers him another shrug. He waits, mind drifting a little to blood-slick battlefields and crumbling concrete structures, until Theo’s voice interrupts him, quiet and resigned. 

“I’ll take it.”

*

Theo ghosts around the edges of Grimmauld Place for the first few days. He eats when Harry eats and lets Kreacher bring him drinks in his room, and he doesn’t venture out until he gets bored, presumably, and that’s when he finds Harry in the sitting room. 

It’s not as cosy as Harry would like, which is partly why he’s decorating it. Everything feels too dark and dingy, with half of the walls painted blood-red, and the half half covered in old-fashioned wallpaper. 

“This place is dismal, Potter,” Theo says, beginning a slow walk around the room. There are ornaments on the mantle that he admires with his fingertips, and faint squares in the wood where something Dark used to stand that he avoids. “Do you spend the whole time here conversing with haughty portraits, or do you actually have something to do hidden away here?”

“I’m trying to teach myself chess,” Harry offers. He doesn’t want to admit that the boredom is something he’s treasuring, for the moment; it’s so different from the boredom he felt in the tent, when there were no leads and nothing but rain and small mushrooms to entertain himself with. He’s never liked being idle, and it’s not easy - he still finds himself pacing and moving and tidying things that don’t need tidying, but being bored is new and freeing, in a way. There’s time for that, now. 

He kicks out the chair opposite him and moves a piece across the board. “Ron tried to teach me when we were in first year, but I don't get it. It’s too confusing.”

Theo scoffs. He eyes the chair, chewing his tongue, and then crosses the room and drops into it with a decisive nod. He’s not wearing the clothes he was wearing before, so Kreacher must have begrudgingly parted with the shirts Harry knows are kept in the airing closet. 

Theo examines the chess board for a moment, and then proclaims, “Well, you’ve completely fucked yourself over from the get-go.”

“Story of my life,” Harry mutters. He starts picking all the pieces back up and rearranging them into a starting position, conscious of Theo’s eyes on his hands. 

“You haven’t asked me questions,” Theo says, after a moment. He flicks his eyes up to look at Harry properly, but looks away again when Harry returns the gaze. Not a fan of eye contact, but Harry doesn’t think it’s because he’s guilty, or hiding something. Theo just strikes him as introverted, reserved. 

“Am I supposed to ask you questions?” 

“No, but I would have thought you’d be curious. Gryffindor insatiability, and all that.”

“Oh, it’s definitely killing me not to ask,” Harry agrees, and Theo snorts. “I’m guessing things have gone to shit for you, like they have for everyone else during the war, and you’re dealing with it as best you can. Can’t really ask for more than that.”

Theo does look at him then. Harry thinks he looks grateful, but he doesn’t know him well enough to be sure, so he just nudges one of the pieces across the board instead. 

“White moves first, right?”

Theo winces. “Yes, but not like that.”

*

Theo doesn’t have a wand, but he does have a familiar gold galleon. Harry watches him turn it over in the evenings, lips pursed, and he can’t help but wonder who’s sending Theo messages. His dad is either in jail or dead, and Harry doesn’t know anything about the rest of his family, if he has any. It’s likely to be a friend, then, but he doesn’t know who Theo was close with at school. He never paid much attention. He was usually focused on Malfoy, if he had to look at the Slytherins, and God, he hopes it’s not Malfoy that’s messaging Theo.

That thought perturbes him for reasons he can’t quite grasp. 

“Stop staring, Potter,” Theo murmurs, and Harry jolts a little. His book slips in his grip, and he re-positions it on his lap. He doesn’t bother apologising because Theo always glares at him the few times he’s done it before, and Harry guesses that it’s a Slytherin thing, not accepting apologies from people to whom you’re in debt. 

Harry doesn’t really consider this a thing involving a debt. There’s no point explaining this to Theo, though. Harry’s tried. It’s yet to lead to a pleasant conversation. 

The fire flares brightly before Harry can ask about the galleon, and he watches as the sphere of gold glints once, and then disappears, tucked away in a pocket. 

“Harry!” Hermione says, from inside the fire, and Harry tears his eyes away from Theo’s empty hands and redirects his gaze to Hermione’s bright, tired smile. 

“Hello, Hermione,” Harry says, grinning. He puts his book aside, rolling his eyes at Hermione’s keen look and the way she tries to read the title, and then slips down to land on the rug in front of the fire grate. He’s missed her. “How are you? How are your parents? Is Ron okay?”

He’s missed Ron, too. There’s no one on earth that can make him laugh quite as much as Ron can, nobody who makes him feel as at home. 

“Everyone’s fine, Harry, don't worry. Ron spends most of his time trying to barricade the windows against spiders, and my parents are still being stubborn about moving back here. That’s why it’s taking so long to come home. They really, really like Australia, and they’re still mad about what I did.”

Harry smiles a little. “I’m sure that’s the only reason why it’s taking both of you so long.”

“Harry!”

Theo snorts from the sofa. Hermione stops looking scandalised for long enough to whip her head around, her bushy hair glowing in the orange light. Her mouth drops open at the sight of Theo, who shrinks into the sofa cushions and frowns down at his fingers, twisting his jumper between them. 

“Nott?”

“Astute as ever, Granger,” Theo says. Harry shoots him a quelling look, and Theo rolls his eyes and gets up, walking out of the room without a further word. Hermione’s face is stern and tense when Harry turns back to her. 

“There had better be a really good explanation as to why there’s a Death Eater in your living room.”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s not a Death Eater. He never took the Dark Mark. And I don't think he even fought in the Battle, I think he was evacuated with the others.”

Hermione’s head shifts agitatedly. “That wasn’t really my point. His father was a Death Eater, and you don't honestly think he would have fought on our side, if he had stayed, do you?” 

“No,” Harry says. “He didn’t fight at all, though. I’m not sure what that says about him, but I found him on someone’s doorstep, Hermione, and I wasn’t about to leave him there.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Hermione says, somewhat despairingly. She bites her lip, thinking hard. “I don't like the thought of you being there alone with him.”

“He doesn’t even have a wand.”

“He doesn’t need a wand to hurt you, Harry! 

“I’m not stupid, Granger,” Theo says, walking back in with a glass of water. “I’m not going to try and hurt anyone, let alone the saviour of the wizarding world.”

“Stop calling me that,” Harry mutters, but his mutterings go unnoticed. 

“I especially wouldn’t do it in his own home, after he’s so kindly offered to let me have a room here.” Theo spares a moment to send a droll look at Harry. “And if I was going to hurt him, I would have done it before he had a chance to contact anyone about me being here. Please, give me some credit.”

“Is that actually supposed to be reassuring?” Harry asks, aghast. He has a mental image of Ron and Hermione bursting through the fire in a blaze of spellfire, but when he glances over, Hermione looks slightly relieved. She nods thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, and he throws his hands up and folds his legs up underneath him, playing with the tassel on the end of the rug. 

“I still don't like it, but I suppose if you have nowhere else to go, it’s okay for now,” Hermione says. 

“I appreciate it.”

“Thank you for the permission,” Harry adds pointedly. Hermione turns to look at him, her eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry Harry, but you know we’re just looking out for you! I’m sure Ron will agree when I tell him.”

“Probably,” Harry says, shrugging. “Thanks, Hermione. Look, you should get back to your parents. And let me know when you’re coming home, yeah?”

She nods emphatically, rambling for a few moments more about dates and times, and then she disappears, with one last parting stare at Theo. Theo sips his water when she’s gone and watches as Harry flops back against the rug. 

“So, you don't really plan on killing me then?” Harry asks. 

“Shut up, Potter.” Theo reaches down with his sock-covered toes and nudges Harry in the shoulder, a move that surprises them both into silence. Theo recovers first, shaking away his stunned look. 

“When exactly are we going to get around to the decorating you asked me to help with?”

Harry expels a huge sigh and sits up on the rug. “I guess we could start tomorrow.”

Theo nods once, pleased. Harry grins at him. 

“We’ll start with your bedroom.”

*  
They’re unpacking the drawers in the dresser in Theo’s room when Theo suddenly stops and stiffens. Harry leaves him to it, rifling through old belongings. Most of Grimmauld Place is sorted and clean, thanks to Molly, but it’s the actual furniture and paint and wallpaper that needs replacing now. 

“I know I’m not in a position to ask for favours,” Theo says stiffly, after a few moments have passed. 

“You’re going to ask anyway,” Harry guesses, turning to look at him. 

Theo appears to brace himself. “Blaise Zabini is in an alleyway in Diagon Alley. He’s been fighting, and I don't know how hurt he is. I was hoping that you might be able to go and get him.”

Harry glances down at the magazines he’s sorting through, a remnant from Sirius’s days here during the days of the Order. He’s not quite sure how he feels about Theo’s request. The idea of going outside definitely beats staying here and getting lost in grief, but the idea of going outside to find Blaise Zabini makes him uneasy. 

“Er, no offense, but that’s not high on my to-do list right now,” Harry says. A flash of gold catches his eye, and he drops his gaze down to find the galleon encased in Theo’s white-knuckled grip. Theo’s expression is tight with worry. Harry sighs and puts down the magazine back on top of the pile. “I’m guessing he’s the one you’ve been messaging.” 

Theo shakes his head. “He’s been messaging me. You can’t send a message in return unless you have a wand, and my father broke mine in half the night he died, when he found me being taken out of Hogwarts with the others.”

The implications of that are… quite horrible, if Harry stops to think about it. He wonders what the last words spoken between them were, and he wonders how desperate Theo must have been these past few weeks, hearing messages from Blaise and being unable to return them. 

“Is this the first time you’ve had a location off him?”

“Yes, but I don't know how long he’ll stay there. Please, Potter.” Theo twists the galleon nervously between his fingers, and Harry gives in. He was always going to give in. 

“Let me just grab my Cloak.”

*  
Diagon Alley is mostly empty. It’s only been a little over two months since the end of the war and people are still fearful, still locking their doors and barring their windows against ungodly sights. Hermione thinks that things will calm down soon, that people will begin to live as they once did, but Harry doesn’t see it. He’s not going to give up on the world he once died for, but he doesn’t think things will go back to the way they were. It’s just not possible. Things have to change. 

Ollivander’s is dark and grim, the boards on the windows coming loose, nails popping free. The windowsills of the Ice Cream Parlour are gathering dust. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is closed for business, and the fading orange paint sends a pang through Harry. He wonders if it will open again. He doesn’t think George would let any more pieces of Fred die without a fight, but grief is a hard thing to battle, at least at first. 

Harry walks past it all, the Invisibility Cloak thrown over his head, until he comes to a small alleyway between the Magical Menagerie and the Apothecary. Theo said Blaise would be waiting there if there was any luck in the world, and sure enough, there’s a figure further up, leaning heavily against the brick wall and panting. 

“Zabini?” Harry asks, cautious. 

Blaise snaps his gaze up and pushes himself to a stand immediately. There’s blood all over his face and his chest is heaving, and he looks pissed. Harry takes his wand out and holds it carefully at his side before slipping his cloak off. 

Blaise releases a short, sharp hiss at the sight of him. He’s barely standing, swaying on the spot, but Harry’s not stupid enough to go and help prop him up. 

“Potter,” Blaise says. “What are you doing here?”

“Theo asked me to come and find you,” Harry says. He doesn’t step any closer. 

The disbelief in the air is palpable. 

“Theo Nott sent you,” Blaise scoffs, shaking his head. He’s clearly dubious. 

“Here.” Harry conjures a tissue and passes it to Blaise, gesturing to the blood on his face. Blaise takes one look at the white flag and drops the tissue on the ground, grinding it into the cobblestones. Harry watches the mud seep into the fibres of white cotton and feels a spark of anger for the first time in weeks.

“Fine,” Harry says coolly. “Bleed all over the place. How did you get hurt, anyway?”

“If you think I’m telling you anything, Potter, you’re going to be pretty fucking disappointed. You expect me to believe that Theo sent you, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, to find me? What, is he working with you now? Or do you have him strapped to a chair somewhere, being tortured into giving you information?”

“That’s more your side’s style, isn’t it?” Harry says, raising an eyebrow. “Why the hell would I torture him? Theo’s fine. He’s living in my spare room, and he’s making me use sweeteners in my tea. He’s fine. I haven’t laid a finger on him.” He can’t help but add, “I’m not like you.”

Blaise sets his jaw, but doesn’t refute the accusation. He hesitates, and then says smoothly, “You can think what you like, Potter, but we didn’t have a choice. It was our families and our lives at stake too. The things we had to do, we didn’t have a choice.”

You did, you did, you did, Harry thinks, fist clenching on his wand. You did, and it’s not for me to say whether you chose wrong, but you know the answer to that anyway. 

Maybe Blaise sees that. Maybe he doesn’t, and he’s just itching for another fight. Whatever the reason, Harry side-steps the punch and throws a shield up, barely flicking his wand, wondering why Blaise chose to use his fists and not a curse. Through the blue-white haze, Blaise looks ghostly, bloody and grim. Like something come up from the graves to claim Harry, to drag him home. 

“You had a choice,” Harry says. His voice is dark and heavy with the weight of sacrifice. “Saying otherwise is just cowardly. You had a choice, and it wasn’t black-and-white, it wasn’t a fair one. You had your reasons. But it was still a decision you made. You chose to fight for the wrong side.”

Harry made a choice. He made a choice to walk into that forest to die, and it wasn’t a fair choice, but he made it anyway. He could have run, he wanted to run. He could have left. He could have not come back, when he did die, and he could have moved on. 

It isn’t the same as Blaise’s decisions, but in many ways it is. 

Harry drops the shield. Blaise clenches his fists at his side and doesn’t move. Harry sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“The right choice isn’t always the easy one,” Harry says. “Dumbledore tried to teach us that, all of us, and I know you probably thought he was a moron and a mad old fool because he gave silly speeches and died before his time, but he was brilliant. Clever. He knew what he was talking about, and he tried to teach all of us, to warn us of what was coming, regardless of House.”

“He didn’t try very hard,” Blaise says, sneering. “He had favourites, and he was more manipulative than you think, Potter. There are books in the shops and stories all over the papers.”

“I know the stories,” Harry says tiredly. “The papers don't know the half of it.”

Blaise grows still. He watches Harry, who just shrugs at him, and Blaise’s face is fierce and full of fire, but Harry doesn’t have it in him to match it. He’s bled dry for this war, this war that’s faded and left behind chalk lines where people should be. He’s bled dry, and fallen, and died, and there’s no fire left inside of him. Barely enough of a spark to feel warm. 

“I never said Dumbledore was faultless,” Harry says, “but I would put my faith in him a thousand times over before I joined Voldemort.”

Blaise doesn’t flinch, but he does go rigid at the name.

“You could have done the same thing, and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you talk about how you didn’t have a choice. Theo sent me to find you because he thought I might be able to help, but I won’t help you if you’re not going to change. I won’t help murderers, or torturers, or Death Eater’s.”

Blaise blinks at him in surprise. Harry watches him in silence, and then Blaise rolls up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing smooth, unblemished black skin. 

“I wasn’t a Death Eater,” Blaise murmurs. He seems to have calmed slightly, and now there’s curiosity where before there was pure rage. “I never had a Dark Mark. I haven’t killed anyone, or hurt people beyond what the Carrows wanted us to do. I won’t lie and say I believe all of the same things you do, but I will say that I’m none of those things.”

His nose is bleeding again, so Harry conjures another tissue and hands it to Blaise. Blaise takes it, this time, and wipes the blood away before it can stain his dark skin.

“I have lasagne,” Harry offers, thinking of the dish full of pasta he prepared this morning. “I have lasagne and coffee, or tea, whatever you drink. There’s some painkillers too, and a bandage for your hand. Nobody’s going to curse you unless you start talking about Blood Purity. If you want it, it’s there.”

*

Theo is waiting on the bottom step of the staircase, turning the galleon over and over in his hands, desperate for a message. Harry regrets how long it took to get Blaise and get out of there, but it’s not like there’s anything he could have done differently, so he lets the regret go and smiles at Theo when he snaps his gaze up. Theo offers him the smallest of smiles in return, and Blaise pauses on the doormat. Harry shifts past him to close the front door and set the locks, turning his back so he can’t see much of their reunion. 

He can still hear it, though. 

“You’re not dead, then,” Blaise says. It strikes him as strange, the anger in Blaise’s voice, because Zabini at school only ever sounded smooth as composed. Harry had thought he only had two emotions: disgust and bland, derisive amusement. 

“I wanted to answer. I don't have a wand, though.” 

Harry winces at the thin thread of desperation in Theo’s tone. He’s used to composure from Theo as well. He wishes he had paid more attention in school, because there’s obviously something between the two of them.

Blaise’s voice is sharp with worry. “What do you mean, you don't have a wand? What happened?”

Harry turns and slips past them down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. He can hear Theo’s quiet explanation of his father’s actions grow fainter as he reaches the kettle and summons Kreacher. 

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“Hello, Kreacher,” Harry says, bumbling around with the kettle. “Tea?”

Kreacher sighs, a resigned whistle of air through his nose, and bobs his head. “Thank you, Master Harry. What can Kreacher do to help?”

“Could you do me a favour and sort out the guest room next to Theo’s? I think we’re going to have someone else staying with us for a while. I’d do it myself, but I don't want to leave them alone for too long in case there’s an argument.”

He’s not a babysitter, but Theo’s supposed to be helping him fix the house up, not bring it down, and he doesn’t think they’d need Wanda to destroy Grimmauld Place. 

“‘Tis no trouble, Master Harry. ‘Tis Kreacher’s job to help, when Kreacher is allowed.”

The last is said rather pointedly, and Harry winces as Kreacher disappears with a crack. He levitates a lasagne out of the fridge, pre-prepared, and into the oven. He makes his own tea, and Theo’s, because he knows how Theo takes his tea now, and then lays out the components for Blaise to make his own hot drink before settling at the kitchen table. He remembers kinder days, with Sirius and Molly cooking bacon and eggs and toast while everyone laughed around the very same table. Those days might not have lasted very long, but they are bright spots in a bleak mind, and Harry clings to them with both hands. 

Blaise pulls out the chair for Theo, jolting Harry out of his own head, and Theo sends him a dry look before sitting down. Harry hadn’t even noticed them coming in. Hermione had warned him that his senses might be dialled up to eleven for a while. Hyper vigilance, she had called it. Instead, the opposite seems to have happened, and Harry feels so lost inside his own mind and the vast, terrifying reaches of his past that he can’t see what’s right in front of his face. 

Blaise slumps into the chair between Theo and Harry, and even his slouch looks graceful. There’s still blood on him, but it’s dried now, flaking away from his shirt collar. His nose doesn’t look broken, luckily. 

“Help yourself,” Harry says, jerking his head at the table. “Food should be about half an hour, but there’s stuff around if you can’t wait.”

“I’m not starved, Potter,” Blaise says. “I have a flat in London.”

“You do?” Theo stares at him hard. “With who? What happened to living with your mother at The Lodge?”

“She’s moved to Paris for a bit, while things calm down.” Blaise lifts one shoulder. “She was neutral, like the Greengrass’s, but the people at the Ministry don't view it that way, so she’s waiting for things to settle.”

Harry isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be listening or not. It’s his kitchen, so it’s not as if they can call him out on poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but still. He plays with a teaspoon while Blaise drolly describes his mother’s latest ‘boy-toy’ that’s keeping her amused in Paris, and he hopes that Hermione doesn’t floo while Blaise is here. 

“You still didn’t say who you were staying with,” Theo says, cutting Blaise off smoothly. 

Blaise blinks once, a minor hesitation, and then says, “Daphne suggested we find a place together.”

Harry definitely isn’t supposed to be listening to this. Theo’s lips flatten into a taut line, a noose pulled tight. Blaise leans into his space, not invading, but as though he belonged there once. Harry definitely isn’t supposed to be seeing this either. He stands quietly and makes his way out of the kitchen, and back into the study. 

A green, spindly creature is waiting for him on top of the desk. 

*

Blaise makes himself at home. He takes over the kitchen, much to Kreacher’s disgust, and starts cooking up a storm. There’s no discussion of Blaise living there, but for the most part, he appears to be. Harry is observant enough to notice that the bedroom beside Theo’s is hardly ever in use, and he notices when Blaise starts helping Theo with the decorating, but that’s mostly because he comes straight to Harry to complain about the lack of supplies. 

“You’ve got one pot of paint, an old toolbox and a couple of brushes,” Blaise says. “How the hell do you plan on fixing up an entire house with just that?”

Harry, who’s deep in a book about bowtruckles, just blinks at him, unsure of how he’s supposed to be responding. Baneet the bowtruckle tucks himself further inside his hair, clinging to the curls with curious twig-like fingers. Blaise doesn’t seem to notice the splash of green amongst the black, but he does make a noise of impatience when Harry fails to respond. 

“Get your coat on, Potter. We’re going to buy paint and tools, and you’re footing the bill.”

Harry rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, summoning his shoes from beside the stairs. “I wasn’t going to make you or Theo pay to fix up my own house. Kind of defeats the point of Theo staying here.”

Blaise narrows his eyes, but he looks pleased. “I wanted to thank you for that. For helping him. I’m not going to, but I wanted to.”

He turns and swans out of the room. Harry chokes on a laugh, coaxing Baneet down to sit in his coat pocket. The coat was a gift from Neville - a bright yellow rain mac. It doesn’t quite suit Harry, but he likes the idea of wearing something so bright, especially on a day when he feels a little darker inside. Baneet seems to like it just fine. 

“Hurry up, Potter.”

Sighing, Harry lets himself be bundled out of his own house, along with a disgruntled-looking Theo, who’s been dragged away from Hermione’s latest book. She’s been sending more since she found out Theo was here, thick textbooks and slim mystery novels in brown paper parcels. Every time an owl pecks at the window, Harry gets a slight thrill of hope until he spots a brown wing. 

It’s drizzling slightly when they get outside, the pavements gleaming with rain and the clouds dusted with charcoal. 

“It’s probably easier if you Apparate us there side-along, Potter,” Blaise says. “My wand’s been locked and tracked, and I can’t be arsed to get the bus.”

Harry snorts, although the idea of locking someone’s wand doesn’t sit well with him, makes him uneasy. It’s the first he’s heard of it, and he makes a mental note to ask Hermione about it later on. “Where exactly are we going?”

They end up at a B&Q. Baneet doesn’t like Apparating, and Harry spends a few minutes trying to soothe the distressed bowtruckle while Blaise and Theo wrangle with a trolley. He tucks Baneet back in his hair once he quiets down, where it’s warmer, and murmurs a small spell to keep the rain off him. 

“He tried to put a fucking galleon in the damn thing,” Blaise crows, half-laughing, as he pushes the trolley up behind Harry. Theo turns bright red and studiously avoids both their gazes, although he does spare a minute to glare at the both of them when Blaise says, “Thought you were supposed to be the smart one?”

Harry has faced far worse things than Theo Nott’s glare, and yet he finds himself shrinking back regardless, both hands rising in surrender. “I didn’t actually say anything.” 

Theo rolls his eyes and storms off towards the shop. Blaise follows at a more sedate pace, whistling a lively tune. 

“You and Theo,” Harry says, following a stray leaf across a puddle. “Are you together?” 

The whistling stops abruptly. “I don't think that’s any of your business.”

“Just asking.” Harry shrugs.

Blaise side-eyes him as they make their way through the sliding double doors. B&Q isn’t too busy, and Harry can easily see Theo disappear down one of the aisles, perusing the paint. 

“We’re not… not-together,” Blaise allows. It’s not a surprise, because Harry is not as unobservant as people seem to think he is; he wouldn’t have made it very far if that was the case. 

Harry nods, slightly distracted as Baneet tugs on his hair. Blaise must not appreciate being semi-ignored because he puffs himself up a little irritably. 

“What about you, oh Chosen One? I would have thought you’d have thousands of witches and wizards beating down your door, and yet it’s just you. Well, you and Theo, but before him it was just you.”

Harry looks at him askance. “Your point?”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “I thought that was obvious. C’mon Potter, this is quite clearly a gossip session now. Are you on the market or not? I thought you were with the girl Weasley?”

Harry can’t really think about Ginny without feeling a misplaced sense of guilt, purely because he hasn’t been thinking about her as much as he should have. He loves her, that much is definite. He doesn’t think he will ever stop, but he’s not sure that it’s the same all-consuming, fierce passion that followed him during the war. Things are bound to have changed, after all. 

“She’s just lost her brother,” Harry says, quiet and grave. “I don't think romance is really on her mind right now. It’s not on mine, either.”

Blaise tips his head, conceding the point. His eyes are on Theo, who’s furtively levitating several pots of paint down from the shelf, each one a shade of delicate eggshell blue, and there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. Harry wonders at the history between them, the moments they’ve shared over the years, and can’t help but think that it’s funny, how easy it is to forget how full other people’s lives are. 

Baneet tugs on Harry’s hair again, and he finds himself being led towards the garden area of the store. Baneet leads him towards the trees, growing tall and thin in their wicker pots, and it doesn’t take long before they settle on one, Baneet crawling all over the leaves in a picky fashion while Harry stands guard, smiling awkwardly at the store attendant who gives him a funny look as he passes. 

Blaise doesn’t question Harry’s disappearance when they return, despite clearly wanting to. Harry has to wedge the tree in between several buckets of paint, roller trays and a collection of screwdrivers. The trolley is ridiculously full and they’ve barely even started yet. 

“Harry,” Theo says, beckoning him over. “Door-knobs.”

Harry doesn’t miss the sharp look Blaise sends them at the use of his first name. He sidles past him until he finds Theo bent over a large display of door-knobs and arches an eyebrow at him. 

“You’ve been calling me Potter up until Blaise came along. Any particular reason why?”

“None at all, Harry,” Theo says blandly. “Blue or cream?”

“It’s your bedroom,” Harry says, and then gives in at Theo’s look. “I don't care. Cream. Too much blue makes a room look cold.”

He only knows this because he heard Aunt Petunia say it when he was younger, and she and Uncle Vernon were thinking of decorating Dudley’s second bedroom. Not while he was in it, of course - he was still in the cupboard then. 

It makes Theo shoot him a second glance though, like he’s vaguely impressed, which is just baffling because it’s paint. He lets Theo fill the trolley with cream door-knobs, lets him pick out two lamps for either side of the bed and lets Blaise stuff several hundred useless scatter cushions into the trolley before he begs for them to leave. 

“We’ve been here twenty-five minutes,” Theo says, a note of disapproval in his voice. “You need to learn how to exist outside of your house again.”

Harry runs his fingers over little sample squares of rugs hanging beside him on one of the shelves. “I don't need to do anything. If I want to become a hermit, I will.”

Theo snorts, but doesn’t argue, heading for the till. Harry has a feeling that he’s going to be going on a lot more impromptu trips outside in the near future. He can’t say he minds; despite what he said, the house is beginning to become a little stifling, crowded with memories and ghosts. 

“McGonagall’s working on an eighth year, for the students who missed everything,” Blaise says, as they load their items into bags. The cashier looks bored as all hell and keeps accidentally putting their items through twice. Theo looks gradually more and more irritated, and Blaise pauses to snicker at him. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks. “You going?”

Blaise shrugs carelessly, but Harry can see a wealth of nerves in his eyes. “I was thinking about it. It wouldn’t be the same as it used to be, but I need the qualifications, and Theo’s always wanted to work at the Ministry, crafting spells, so he needs them too. I guess it just depends if they let us back in.”

Harry snorts. “It’s McGonagall. She’s no Snape, she knows how to be fair. She’ll let you back in, no question, if that’s what you want.”

Harry might have a different respect for Snape now, but there was no denying that he was a shitty teacher, a bully. Neville’s fear is all the proof Harry needs for that. Blaise hums thoughtfully and smoothly takes over the transaction before Theo can blow up at the cashier, and Harry casts a subtle Weightless charm to make the tree a lot lighter before he lifts it. Baneet crawls down his arm and nestles himself inside the leaves. 

“Are all Muggles this frustrating?” Theo asks, fuming, as they exit the shop without Blaise. 

“Are all wizards this judgemental?” Harry asks. Theo grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Of course they’re not all frustrating. Lots are, though. Just like wizards.”

“I wasn’t being literal, Potter,” Theo says, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, well I can never tell when it comes to you lot and Muggles,” Harry says, with more lightness than he feels. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

Theo stops at the place where they Apparated in. They can see Blaise in the distance, near the shop, pulling his hood up. The rain starts coming down again, pattering fruitlessly against the material of Harry’s coat. 

“I confess I don't know much about Muggles,” Theo says hesitantly, voice pitched over the sound of water against tarmac. “Everything I’ve learned about them, I learned from my father. I’m beginning to realise that he might not have been the most reliable source. We… we were on the wrong side, during the war, which means the right side must have been right about many things. I think there are some things I need to learn again.”

Harry watches Blaise jog towards them, the rain sliding off his shoulders, and agrees quietly. He’s been ignoring, for the most part, all of their heavy opinions on certain subjects, but he can’t really justify it anymore. 

He claps Theo on the shoulder and prepares to Apparate them away. 

It’s good to hear, and even if it’s not enough, it’s a start. 

*

Harry opens the front door to find Ginny on the other side. His immediate thought is that somehow Blaise got ahold of her, but that’s ridiculous, so he dismisses it a moment later. 

There’s a fierce frown on her face that doesn’t quite lift when she rests her eyes on him. She’s wearing a jumper covered in bright yellow sunflowers, and her hair is pinned back with a pretty clip. Her shoes are scuffed, her dungarees baggy, and she brushes past Harry without a word. 

Behind her, lingering on the garden path, is George. 

He looks - well, he looks exactly the same as ever, barring the single blue streak in his ginger hair, and the darkness around his eyes. Harry wonders if he dyed it to blot out the image of Fred, and decides not to ask. George dawdles on the path for longer than Ginny, who Harry can hear banging around in the kitchen, and it’s like George is unsure of his welcome.

It’s ridiculous. Harry has always, always felt welcome at the Burrow, always been drawn in with open arms, and they must know by now that the same is true of wherever he goes. 

“You can come in, you know,” Harry says. He shuffles out of the way and opens the door wider. George glances down at Harry’s feet, and his mouth quirks into a strangely aimless grin that only lifts at one side. The other half of his smile is missing. 

“Nice slippers,” George says, and closes the door behind him. 

Theo and Blaise are upstairs, presumably painting Theo’s bedroom a nice shade of blue, but more likely than not staining themselves and the dust-covers on the carpets all different colours. Harry isn’t one to begrudge them a bit of fun, especially not with all the misery surrounding them lately. Plus, it means they have the kitchen to themselves. 

Ginny sits on the counter, swinging her feet, something that Harry has seen her do a thousand times and never quite appreciated before. She’s doused in sunlight from the kitchen window, and the flowery scent that always surrounds her drifts over Harry as he passes her on the way to the kettle. He takes comfort in it, but that’s all there is, he realises with a sinking feeling. Comfort and familiarity, but no romantic love, no urge to kiss her or hold her hand or ask her out again. 

It would have been easier if he felt the same as before, if the old feelings had rushed back with a passion. 

George leans against the doorway. He takes a chocolate biscuit when Harry passes him the tin, and Ginny takes three, munching down on one immediately. George just holds his. He doesn’t want to be here. That much is obvious, and no amount of tea or distraction is going to change that. But they’re here for a reason, so Harry sits on one of the chairs and props his elbows on the kitchen table. 

“Not that I mind or anything, but how come you’re here?”

“Mum was getting worried because we hadn’t heard from you in a while,” Ginny says, with a sharp look. “George was… well, he needed to go outside.”

“George was inside, enjoying some peace and quiet,” George says. His voice scratches against the air, harsh pinpricks in the silence. He almost sounds like he’s been screaming. 

“George needed to go outside,” Ginny reiterates, “and Mum was worried, so we’re here to say hello, and to make sure you haven’t fallen down the stairs and broken something.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. He wonders how many times in his life he’s said those words, and how many times in his life they’ve been true. For the minute, they’re not a lie. He’s not brilliant, but he could definitely be worse. He’s fine. 

Ginny scoffs, and Harry musters up a half-hearted glare. He drops it a moment later and smiles tiredly instead. 

“It’s good to see you though,” Harry says. “Both of you. How is everyone?”

“Holding up,” Ginny says, her voice softer. 

This time, George is the one who scoffs. He levels a dark look at the biscuit in his hand, turning it over and over, the chocolate melting on his fingers. 

“Mum won’t stop crying, even when she’s cooking. Dad just sits in the shed and doesn’t do anything, just sits there, staring at nothing. Percy’s a mess, thinks it’s his fault. Charlie doesn’t want to be here, and Bill keeps staring at Fleur like he might lose her because we did lose someone and it’s just hitting everyone now. Ron’s buggered off to Australia because he can’t stand to look at me, nobody will look at me.”

“I’m looking at you,” Ginny says fiercely. “And did you ever think that we can’t stand to look at you because we can’t stand to see you like this?”

George lets an ugly laugh loose. It’s only ugly because it’s so raw, and people never like to hear of raw things; they like songs of grief dressed up prettily, when grief is far from pretty. 

“I look like Fred, Ginny,” George says. To Harry’s surprise, his voice stays steady. “I look exactly like Fred, and every time someone looks at me, they wish it was him.”

Ginny picks up her second biscuit and whips it at George. It bounces off his forehead, leaving a chocolate smear there, and Harry watches it roll across the kitchen tiles in silence. 

“Don't say that,” Ginny says quietly. Harry waits with bated breath as George lifts a hand, bewildered, and wipes the chocolate away with his sleeve. He stares at the mark in silence, and then the smallest smile cracks over his face. 

“Not bad aim, Gin,” George says. “Fred would be proud.”

Ginny looks stunned, and then after a second, she throws her head back and starts laughing, loudly. George chuckles a little, tired but genuine, and sits down in the chair opposite Harry. 

“Are we done throwing my food all over my kitchen?” Harry asks drily, but there’s a grin of his own on his face. Ginny wipes her eyes as her laughter dies down a little. 

“Sorry, mate,” George offers. “Been a while since I interacted with people. I’ve forgotten my manners.”

Harry snorts. There’s a thump from the stairs. Harry holds his breath, and Ginny puts down her remaining biscuit, frowning at the hallway, her laughter gone. 

“Are Ron and Hermione back?”

“Er,” Harry says. “Not quite?”

Theo reaches the doorway then. “Harry? Is everything alright? We heard voices…”

His eyes find Ginny, and then George, and then Harry. Harry grimaces apologetically in his direction. 

“Harry, why are there Snakes in your house?” Ginny asks pleasantly. Harry can see her hand inching towards her wand. George’s face is blank. 

“Theo and Blaise are staying here,” Harry offers. “Don't hex them. Hermione and Ron know about it, if that helps.”

It’s a little irritating, having to reassure people that his friends have given permission to do something in his own house, but he knows they’re all just worried. 

“That didn’t actually answer my question,” Ginny says. 

“Theo’s homeless, and I’m his fiance,” Blaise says, shoving Theo gently aside and swanning into the kitchen. 

“You definitely are not,” Theo says. 

“I would be, if only you’d say yes, Theodore, darling,” Blaise says, with a mournful, loving look at him. Harry coughs a laugh into his fist, and Blaise flips him off without looking. 

“Clearly we have the wrong house, Gin,” George says. 

Harry doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Blaise sits in the chair between Harry and George, his back to Ginny, which Harry thinks is a brave move. Or perhaps a stupid one. 

“You must have a reason for letting them stay with you,” Ginny says, staring Harry down. 

“He has a ridiculous Saviour complex,” Theo says, heading for the fridge. He looks uncharacteristically nervous as he opens the door, and Harry wonders if it’s something to do with the fact that Ginny won’t stop staring at the back of his head. 

“Ginny, don't,” Harry says. 

“We lost people because of their side, Harry,” Ginny snaps. “They might not have been fully against us, but they weren’t with us, either, and we lost people.”

“You think I don't know that?” Harry asks. “We all lost people, including them. You don't have to like it, but they’re living with me.”

Ginny looks stunned. Harry regrets his sharp tone, especially as Ginny hasn’t done anything wrong, but he’s tired of fighting. 

“They made bad choices,” Harry says tiredly. He catches Blaise’s eye and holds it. “Really shit choices, in fact. But they lost people too, and they’re trying to change, and if I can help at all, then I’m going to.”

Theo fiddles with the carton of orange juice inside the fridge. He doesn’t meet Harry’s eye, his hands moving swiftly as he screws and unscrews the lid. Ginny hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of them, and then she reaches out and kicks the back of Blaise’s chair. 

Blaise jolts forward slightly, and then turns his head, eyebrow raised. “You called?”

“You owe me an apology,” Ginny says. 

“I owe many people many apologies,” Blaise says airily, but Harry sees a little something change as he swivels properly in his chair to look at Ginny. “I suppose I could start with you.” 

*

“Take George with you to see Teddy,” Ginny says, as they’re on their way out of the door. George is already at the bottom of the path, still and silent as a grave, and he doesn’t look up when Harry jerks back in surprise. 

“What? Why?”

“It might do him some good to see new life,” Ginny says. “I… none of us know how to fix this, because there is no fixing it, but we can’t leave him as he is. I know he needs time to heal, we all do. But I can’t walk past his door anymore and listen to the quiet in there. It’s not home unless the twins are there, creating chaos, and if we can’t have that, we can at least make George smile again. Properly.”

Harry nods. He hasn’t seen Teddy since Theo wormed his way into his life, and he feels a little bad about that, about leaving Andromeda alone. It had been highly awkward, when Andromeda found Harry in the Great Hall, after, and asked him to visit, her face stained with tears and a squirming baby in her arms. Harry had taken Teddy for a few minutes to give her a reprieve, and he knew right then that nothing would keep him from that baby. 

He needs to visit. He wants to visit. And if it’ll help George, then he may as well come along too. 

“I also think it helps, seeing you,” Ginny says, her voice softer. “You know what it’s like.”

“Loss? Yeah, I guess I do,” Harry says. He rubs his brow and then nods again. “I’ll go next week and see Teddy, so tell George to be here about half ten, on Tuesday. Andromeda’s always home on Tuesdays, but I’ll Floo ahead just in case.”

Ginny rests a hand briefly on his cheek, and then steps down the front step. 

“Ginny?” Harry calls, just before she can join George. “About us…”

Ginny smiles, small and sad and tired. “Another time?”

Harry has a feeling that she's not talking about a conversation. This is it, he realises. And maybe she's right; maybe, at another time, whether in this life or the next, they might be able to make it work. Right now, though, it feels as though there's something else waiting for the both of them. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and watches them walk down the garden path. “Yeah, another time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you! I hope you liked it! Same name pretty much everywhere, if you want to find me :) <3


End file.
